“What’s your general’s name?” he asked.
“He is the General,” the ogre said.
Singe clenched his teeth. “Fair enough,” he said. “How does the General know I’m looking for a guide to Tzaryan Keep?”
The ogre looked as if he was trying to find an answer to an unexpected question in an unfamiliar language. “The General hears about your looking,” he said awkwardly.
“The General hears quickly,” said Dandra. “What is he doing in Vralkek anyway?”
The ogre’s face tensed in frustration. “The General brought us to Vralkek to test our discipline.”
Singe heard someone else’s voice behind the ogre’s word; he had probably learned the response by rote after listening to orders from his commander over and over again. The presence of Tzaryan’s troops in Vralkek was an annoying coincidence, but it was plausible. Placing troops into an urban setting to test their discipline was a common enough training practice. Robrand d’Deneith had done the same thing to him and Geth when they were being trained in the Frostbrand. He glanced at the shifter again.
Geth narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Don’t accept.
Singe looked Dandra. She shrugged. Maybe.
His gut told him that the General’s invitation, if unexpected, was a boon to them. In the company of ogre troops, they would be safe from virtually any danger they might encounter. There would be no doubt that Tzaryan Rrac would know they were coming. They would probably even be escorted right to the ogre mage if they asked for it.
On the other hand, his head told him to be wary. The thought of traveling with this unknown general, among ogre troops, directly into the presence of someone they were, after all, trying to deceive, seemed too dangerous. It was far too simple and far too convenient. They were putting themselves directly into Tzaryan Rrac’s power.
He bent his head toward the ogre. “Thank the General for his invitation, but we prefer to travel on our own.”
The ogre looked completely confused. His sloping forehead rippled into furrows deep as a plowed field. “By order of the general, you are invited to travel with us as we return to Tzaryan Keep,” he repeated, this time with greater force—and a different emphasis. He gestured and the ogres with him moved to stand beside the table.
“Singe,” growled Geth quietly, “I don’t think this is exactly an invitation.”
“Figured that out, did you?” Singe asked. Six of them, six ogres, he thought—they were evenly matched, at least until the troops outside the Barrel came in. They were also surrounded and in a very cramped space. Even if they could fight their way free, though, they would have earned themselves an enemy close to Tzaryan Rrac.
He looked up at the ogre leader and smiled. “I misunderstood,” he said. “Of course, we’d be honored to accept the General’s protection in our travels. Would it be possible for me to meet him to offer my thanks in person?”
The ogre looked relieved but his answer to the request was blunt. “No,” he said. “But she can.” His eyes settled on Dandra—then wavered to Ashi. For a moment, he looked confused again, then he thrust a finger at Dandra. “Her,” he said decisively. “The General asks her to ride with him on the journey.”
Singe stiffened. “What? No!”
Dandra, however, was already rising. “I’d be honored,” she said—even as the kesh brushed Singe’s mind. Don’t worry, she told him silently, I’ll be fine.
You’ll be a hostage! Singe warned her.
I escaped Dah’mir and the Bonetree clan. I can escape this General if I need to. An image of her using the long step to vanish from one place and appear in another flickered through the kesh.
If anyone was going to be a hostage, Singe had to admit that Dandra made a good choice. Be careful, he told her.
The ogre leader stepped up to wrap one meaty fist around Dandra’s arm, then gestured for his troops. “Take them to their rooms.”
Ashi started to open her mouth, but Singe quickly put an elbow into her side. Her protest didn’t go unnoticed, however. The ogre leader glared at her, then looked down at Singe. “You should sleep. We leave early in the morning.”
“Of course,” said Singe. He shot a glance at Geth. The shifter moved to take a position beside Ashi, keeping her calm, as Singe led the way past the ogres and toward the taproom’s door. The others followed him, each of them shadowed by an ogre. Outside—the noise in the taproom rising once again in excited gossip—they were turned toward the stairs leading up to the Barrel’s rooms. Singe glanced over his shoulder and exchanged a glance with Dandra as the ogre leader led her off in another direction.
“Lords of the Host!” cursed Natrac. “I don’t know if this is good or bad!”
“I think,” said Singe, “it might actually be good.”
Geth growled. “If this is good, I hope things don’t get any better.”
Darkness vanished in a burst of fiery light and Vennet blinked against the radiance of the setting sun on open ocean. Far below, a ship—his ship—crawled against the plain of water. “Hold fast!” bellowed Dah’mir. The dragon’s head and neck bent, his wings followed—and his body plunged down through the air at a terrible angle.
Vennet shouted with delirious excitement. Acceleration and the rushing air pressed at him, threatening to tear him from Dah’mir’s back or Hruucan’s bundled body from his arms. The sudden brightness and the speed forced his eyes shut, but he could hear just fine. The wind screamed around him. There’s the ship! They’re on it! Find them! Kill them!
Dah’mir pulled up out of his dive only a ship’s height above the water. Waves rushed past as they bore down upon Lightning on Water. “Be ready to jump when I hover!” he said.
“Aye, master!” Vennet braced himself. The ship rushed up to meet them. Dah’mir’s wings arced and scooped, beating hard just as they passed over the deck. Flat wood and screaming sailors were only a few paces below.
“Now!”
Vennet thrust himself free of the dragon’s scaly body and leaped for the deck.
Time had barely seemed to pass while Dah’mir plunged through Shadow, but some small part of Vennet realized even as he jumped that if it had been morning when they left the Bonetree mound and the sun was now setting, then he had spent hours clinging desperately to the dragon’s back. His limbs were cramped and stiff. His fingers were clenched into claws. Movement was awkward.
He hit the deck with a crash that sent agony flaring through an ankle.
He tried his best to protect the bundle that was Hruucan, but even so he felt the dolgaunt’s inert body crumble a little bit more under the impact.
“C-captain?” A familiar face bent over him, pale with horror. Karth, Vennet realized it was Karth. Steadfast, solid—
“Traitor!” he shouted and lashed out with a backhand blow that sent Karth reeling back. Vennet dropped Hruucan and forced himself to his feet, trying to get his bearings.
He stood on the aft deck. Below on the main deck, the crew that he had left in Zarash’ak raced back and forth, driven mad with fear at the sight of the dragon that circled the ship. The ship continued to surge forward through the water, though. Even Dah’mir was hard pressed to match her speed. Vennet spun around.
Only Marolis seemed to have resisted the terror of the dragon’s appearance. He clutched the ship’s wheel, his knuckles white, his face even whiter as he stared at his captain.
Above him, the great air elemental bound into the ship howled a song of wordless power.
Vennet leaped toward his junior officer. “Stop this ship!”
Marolis didn’t speak, but just shook his head. He spun the wheel sharply, bringing the ship hard over and sending the deck canting at a dangerous angle. Terrified sailors lost their footing and slid across the wood. Hruucan tumbled and rolled, crashing into a hatch. Vennet had seen far worse in storms. He leaned against the sloping deck and ripped his cutlass from his scabbard.
“Stop!” he roared. “Stop!” He wrapped both hands around the hilt
of the cutlass and swung it in a powerful arc. The weapon chopped into the angle of Marolis’s neck, cleaving flesh and jumping as it hit bone, stopping only when the blade became wedged in the ruin of the man’s chest. Marolis sagged, his dead weight dragging on the wheel, rolling the ship in the other direction. Vennet cursed and kicked his body away. He grasped the wheel and held it steady, then narrowed his eyes and called on the power of his dragonmark.
Heat flared across his shoulder and the back of his neck. Vennet channeled the magic of the mark into the wheel, feeling it skip and strike among the chips of dragonshards that had been used in the wheel’s making. Through the wheel, he sent a stern order to the bound elemental. Full stop!
The howl of wind ceased instantly, the churning circle of mist condensing back into a solid ring. Lightning on Water slowed, momentum carrying her on through the water.
Moments later, Dah’mir’s herons caught up to the ship.
The birds had kept up with them in their passage through Shadow, but Dah’mir’s final burst of speed had left them behind. Now they fell on Lightning on Water like locusts on a field of grain. Beaks pierced and snapped at the flesh of screaming sailors. Claws raked. Ripped out of their fear, the sailors tried to fight back, but their attacks were clumsy. The greasy black feathers of the herons became sodden with blood.
Dah’mir circled around and hovered briefly above the deck, great wings beating a gale. “Find them, Vennet! Find Dandra! Find Geth! Find them all!”
“Master!” Vennet wrenched his cutlass from Marolis’s body and leaped down to the main deck. He raced through a whirlwind of screeching bird and wailing men, sliding on slippery wood, and dropped down through the hatch that led to the passenger cabins. One by one, he flung the doors open—meeting no resistance.
He clenched his teeth and pushed through the door—once shattered by Karth—of his sleeping cabin. It was empty as well. He drew a ragged breath, a dark suspicion dawning on him. “No,” he said to himself. “No. No! No!”
He tore into the hidden compartment in his floor and ripped open his strongbox, scattering coins, gems, and tradestrips of precious metal. Bloody hands emerged with a packet wrapped in pale fabric. Squeezing a fist around it, he raced back up onto the deck.
“Master!” he screamed at Dah’mir. “They’re not here! They’re not here!” He flung the packet to the deck. Pale silk, now stained, unfolded. Two large, sparkling dragonshards—one blue-black, one gold—bounced across the blood-slick deck. “We followed your shards, not them!”
In the air above, Dah’mir’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible! Check the holds!”
Vennet darted to the forward hold first, pausing at the bottom of the steep stairs to scan the shadows, then slowly pushing forward. The hold was packed with cargo that had once been destined for Trolanport. He listened closely, ignoring the creaks of a moving ship, the sloshing of water, the last groans and whimpers of his dying crew. He could hear and see nothing. Vennet mounted the stairs and stalked grimly toward the stern and the aft hold. Dah’mir said nothing as he circled. The black herons had retreated to the rails of the ship, leaving only torn bodies behind.
The moment he descended the stairs, Vennet heard a muffled sobbing. An everbright lantern had been hung near the stairs. Vennet lowered the shade. The sobbing stopped, stifled, as light flooded the hold, but he knew where it had come from. He slid forward silently, cutlass ready.
Chains lay on the floor. Someone had been held prisoner—and recently. There were fresh, bright scratches on the open lock and a piece of bent wire, the kind sometimes used to bind crates, still stuck out of the keyhole. Whoever had been held prisoner had escaped. Vennet clenched his teeth. He wasn’t going to find the people he wanted here, he realized, but he might find answers.
The sobbing had come from behind some crates. Vennet slid up to them, paused, then stepped around sharply.
A length of wood swung at him. He leaped back and sliced with his cutlass. He felt it bite flesh. The wood fell to the floor.
Karth stared at him. The sailor’s face was wet with tears. He clutched at his arm and blood seeped between his fingers.
Vennet held his cutlass steady. “Where are they, Karth?”
The sailor’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Vennet cursed. He reached out and grabbed Karth’s shirt, hauling him out of his hiding place and dragging him to the center of the hold. He flung him down beside the chains. “Who was held prisoner here?” he demanded.
“A bounty hunter,” Karth choked. “A bounty hunter named Chain.”
Vennet ground his teeth together so hard they hurt—then twisted around and slammed the hilt of his cutlass across Karth’s face. The man staggered, stunned. Vennet grabbed him and hauled him close, swiftly wrapping the length of chain tight around his wrists. He strung the chain through the bolt in the floor and, just as Karth realized what was going on and started to struggle, hooked the lock through the chains and squeezed it shut. The bent wire that had picked the lock before he flicked far away into a corner of the hold, then watched as Karth tried to wrench himself free of the chains.
“What was Chain doing a prisoner in my hold?” Vennet asked him. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know! I came down here to hide from you and he was gone!” said Karth. He was starting to sob again. Blood from his wounded arm was running down to turn the chains red. “Dandra captured him in Zarash’ak,”
“Well then, where’s Dandra?” Vennet shouted. “Where’s Geth? Where’s Singe? Where’s Ashi? Where are they?” He swung his cutlass, cutting deep into the deck only a span from Karth’s legs. “Tell me or by Khyber’s glory, I will start cutting pieces off you just like I did Natrac!”
“Vralkek!” Karth wailed. “We let them off in Vralkek. They’re traveling to Tzaryan Keep.”
“Thank you.” Vennet wrenched his cutlass out of the deck and turned for the stairs. Karth sobbed in fear behind him—sobs that rose into a frightened shout as Vennet climbed up onto the deck.
“Captain? Captain, I told you where they are. Set me free.” Chains rattled as Karth climbed to his feet. “Captain, set me free!”
Dah’mir was waiting on the deck in his heron form. “Well?”
“Vralkek,” Vennet said. “Headed to Tzaryan Keep.” His face twisted. “Storm at dawn, they must have left the ship while we were in Shadow.”
“Tzaryan Keep,” repeated Dah’mir. “How did they—?” The heron’s expression was inscrutable, but his eyes seemed to flash in the dying light and when he spoke again, his voiced seethed. “Ashi. The tales of the Bonetree. Vennet, find Hruucan. We’ll be leaving shortly.” He flapped his wings and hopped into the middle of the largest stretch of clear deck the ship had to offer, then transformed. Lightning on Water groaned under the sudden weight of a dragon, but Dah’mir looked unconcerned.
Vennet found Hruucan’s body wedged among barrels and ropes, the stinking tunic half unwrapped from his charred form. He wrapped it up again, ashes sifting out with every movement. Vennet hoped that the dolgaunt wouldn’t notice when he woke again. He hurried to Dah’mir and climbed back up to the base of his neck.
“Master,” he said, “will we be able to catch them before they reach Tzaryan Keep?”
“We don’t need to chase them anymore,” said Dah’mir. “I know what they’re trying to do.”
With a leap that left Lightning on Water bobbing in the water like a toy, the dragon took to the air again, his herons following in his wake. They circled the drifting ship once, then broke to the northwest and began to climb into the gathering night.
For a long time after, it seemed to Vennet that he could still hear Karth screaming.
CHAPTER
9
Tzaryan Rrac’s ogre troops marched Dandra across town to another inn that looked as if it had, in better times, been a place with aspirations. Singe had told her that until it had been weakened in the Last War, Breland had claimed dominion over the barrens. The inn was a fading remnant of
Brelish civilization, clinging to a dream of luxury while ogres stood guard outside its door and painted plaster flaked away from the inside walls. Dandra saw no other guests—and no staff either—as the ogres hustled her through the common room and up a flight of stairs that creaked threateningly under the creatures’ weight. On the upper floor, the leader of the ogres opened a door and gestured for her to enter. She looked inside cautiously. The room was sparsely furnished, but otherwise empty.
“Where’s the General?” she asked.
“You wait here,” the ogre said. “The General will send for you.”
He pushed her through the door—it was like being nudged by a horse—then pulled it closed behind her. Dandra waited for the sound of a lock or a bolt, but there was nothing except the heavy footsteps of the ogres moving away. For a moment, she considered looking back out into the hall to see if a guard had been left behind, but there didn’t seem to be any point. She had no intention of escape.
The room’s single window faced west and the light of the setting sun painted the walls red. Dandra went over to the window and looked out over Vralkek. The Barrel was nowhere in sight. She tried reaching out to Singe with the kesh, but the wizard was too far away. She sighed, wrinkling her nose, and looked beyond the town. Far to the west, back in the Shadow Marches, Dah’mir and Vennet would have reached the Bonetree mound.
Dandra leaned against the window frame and wondered what the dragon’s next move would be. He’d look for them, she was certain of it, but they’d broken their trail. Dah’mir wasn’t going to have an easy time finding them again.
But he will find us, whispered Tetkashtai. The presence’s light was dim in Dandra’s mind. He’ll use magic. He’ll hire another Tharashk bounty hunter. He’ll—
Dandra’s lips pressed tight in frustration. Tetkashtai’s frantic terror had ebbed into a hopeless depression that was almost as frustrating and just as infectious. At times, Dandra found herself fighting to keep from falling into the same pessimism. Khorvaire is a big place, she reminded Tetkashtai. As far as Dah’mir knows, we could be anywhere. Maybe he will find us eventually—but it will take him time and by then we’ll have uncovered his secrets.
The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II Page 17
